The Bro Code

by Elizabeth A. Seibert

  Carter went before me. The team clapped for him as he started, clapping harder as he made the dribbling look easy, when even some of the guys on the team struggled with it. He breezed through the cones, and in a fluid movement, shot a hard 30 degrees towards the goal. It swished easily into the net, and he jogged to the back of the line.

  “Damn, that kid is good,” someone had said behind me when Carter was still tackling the cones.

  “Wow,” another had said after his goal, “we gotta get that guy.”

  At first, I thought it would be nice to go after Carter, and I could watch his technique and tell him about it later. Now, I had to go after Carter.

  The coach blew his whistle. “Dude, you’re up,” said the guy behind me.

  I took a deep breath, balancing my toe on the ball. Three, two, one . . . I counted. Go. I exploded from the line, trying to tear through the cones as easily as Carter had. Go, go, go, I pushed myself to run even faster. At the end of the cones, the Clarkebridge coach held his hand up and to his left.

  Shoot for the upper left. I lined up my shot and it sailed safely into the net—on the center of the right side. Oops. The guys on the team didn’t know where I was supposed to shoot, however, and cheered for me as I jogged to the back of the line.

  “I dunno, I think that guy was faster,” someone said.

  “The blond guy had a nicer shot.”

  “They’re both incredible,” said someone else.

  At Cassidy High practices, I was always the absolute man. It was my group of guys, and I truly belonged there. Playing with Clarkebridge’s team was different. A new thrill. Like the impossibilities I’d always dreamed of were actually in reach. When I lined up my next shots at the goal, hearing the encouraging cheers from the hyperathletic strangers around me, I felt like I was taking a dare from my future, challenging me to decide if this was what I wanted.

  It was the thrill of getting to see what my life would be like if I wanted the guys around me to be my new guys. At least, if I was up to the work it would take to succeed on the team here. And if I was up to the good-byes.

  We finished the shooting drill and jogged to the sideline for water. Next would be a scrimmage with the team. Carter came up beside me, sweat in his hair and darkening his pinny.

  “Pretty cool, right?” he said. “Picture this with a few thousand people.”

  Imaginary cheering came from the stadium as we took it in. Carter nudged me. “I hear we’re doing way better than those other high school guys.”

  The two recruits trying out with us sat on the grass, pouring water over their heads. Their cheeks puffed red from the exhilaration.

  “I have a good feeling about this,” I said, “Just gotta nail the scrimmage.”

  “That’s what we do best,” said Carter. He swigged his water bottle, and as the light caught him at that exact angle, his blond hair shone like a trophy.

  I couldn’t wait to tell my dad about this.

  The next day, Carter and I anxiously waited for our interviews, rocking full suits. Carter was up first, which meant I had extra time to psych myself out and feel extra uncomfortable in the Buckingham Palace–style admissions building. Why does basically every school make their admissions building all plush and stuffy when it’s nothing like the rest of the school? Maybe to make the one percent feel more at home. Mostly it was hard to breathe.

  We both sat leaning over our legs, hands clasped between our knees. I’d showered, smoothed the wrinkles out of my jacket, and banned “up-talking” from my known speech, like my mom had asked.

  “You’re gonna crush it, like those shooting drills last night,” said Carter. Since between us, my interview was the one that mattered.

  “Duh.” I tried to pump myself up.

  “Try not to freak out.”

  “You’re the one freaking out, bro. I’m cool as a cucumber over here,” I said, my right leg bouncing hard enough to shake the chair next to me.

  “It’s going to be fine.”

  “You sound like my mom.”

  “Totally fine.”

  “Say fine again.”

  Carter grinned. “F-I-N-E—” he was interrupted by his phone ringing. “Gotta turn that off.” He looked at the caller.

  “Hey, Eliza,” he answered it. “Oh, really?” At the same time, a tall door down the ostentatious hallway opened and a short man in a pinstripe suit, looking exactly like that guy from that movie, headed towards us.

  “Carter O’Connor?” he called.

  Carter gulped. “Here,” he said into his phone. “Talk to Nick while I interview.”

  He basically threw the phone at me in his attempt to rush off.

  “’Sup, Gorgeous?”

  Carter couldn’t make a face at me with the interviewer watching. He powerlessly plodded down the hall towards the guy who held our fates in his hands. It was almost as fun to make him think I was fake flirting with his sister as it was to actually flirt with her.

  “Well would you listen who it is.” Her sunshiney voice made the stressful admissions building feel like a yoga retreat.

  “It’s fine, I know you really called to talk to me.”

  “Do you know where Carter keeps the antacids? ’Cause that’s what I want to find out.”

  “No, I don’t,” I replied, “because that would be way too much information.”

  “Let’s say I taste-tested one too many cupcakes last night.”

  “And by one, you mean twelve?”

  “I mean however many Olivia notices are missing. How’s it going down there? Must be pretty boring, if you don’t have anything better to do than talk to your bro’s li’l sis.”

  “Don’t you have class? Last time I checked, it’s the middle of the morning.” The one thing that really kept me going about this interview was that I’d get to miss school for it. And since it was a soccer tryout, I wouldn’t have to do sprints for missing practice.

  “Free period,” said Eliza. “Hence the quest for antacid.”

  “Right, right. Well, you know me.” I relaxed in my over-cushioned armchair. The waiting room was completely empty except for me and the grad student who had checked us in. “Parties up the wazoo. Surrounded by ’em. Been here twenty-four hours and this school has no idea what hit ’em.”

  “Didn’t expect anything less.” Her voice fell, which, from my basic understanding of the Chick Code, meant she was unimpressed. My normal B.S. wasn’t going to get me far with her. Instead, she pushed for authenticity. “Ready for your first, and hopefully only, college interview?”

  “You ask all these hard questions.”

  “Thank you. You need help?”

  Normally, I never would have admitted weakness to another human being, let alone a girl. But this was Clarkebridge. And this was Eliza.

  “Yeah.”

  “I did not think you’d say that. Nick Maguire, are you asking for help?”

  My shoes rubbed against the tile floor, bouncing with my leg. “Don’t get used to it.”

  “I would never. I guess let’s start with the easy one? Why do you want to go to Clarkebridge?”

  “Um . . .”

  “Good start, buddy.”

  I groaned. “I’m going to tank this.”

  “Why are you doubting yourself, Nick? I thought you were, like, Mr. Confident.”

  “Ha,” I said. “I’m also, like, Mr. Almost-Failing-Bio. Which I’m going to need to not be if I want to get into any of the sports majors here.”

  “Maybe. Except when you go to college you can be anyone you want, right?”

  “I guess.”

  “Supposedly,” she said, “we’re all, like, some combination of the five people we hang out with the most. Unless you go to college with, like, Carter, Austin, your parents, and Madison . . . you’re probably gonna be different.”

&
nbsp; I considered this. “Maybe I want to be more like you.”

  “Then you’re going to have to hang out with me more,” said Eliza.

  I grinned into the phone. “You want to hang out more?”

  Eliza went quiet. I had to take the phone away from my ear to check that the call hadn’t dropped.

  “Do you?” she asked.

  Despite the heavy air conditioning, my cheeks burned.

  “How’s Thursday night?”

  “I think I can make that. Where are you taking me?”

  “Where am I taking you?” I could imagine her biting back a smile. “You mean you don’t want to watch a movie and chill?” That was a joke, since everyone knew that phrase didn’t really mean watching a movie, and she knew I didn’t mean that as a suggestion.

  “Wow. You really are a hot date,” she teased me back. “Every girl’s dream evening right there.”

  “Oh, it’s a date?”

  “I know you might be unfamiliar with the concept,” she said. “I think it could be fun.”

  I was glad she couldn’t see me. If she had, she’d have seen how completely not cool about this I actually was.

  “I don’t want to spoil the elaborate surprise I have obviously planned for you. Pick you up at six?” I asked.

  “Does that give you enough time after soccer practice? I know how long you spend on your hair.”

  “I’ll make it work.”

  “You’d better.”

  For a minute, neither of us said anything. “So . . . why Clarkebridge?” Eliza asked.

  Because it already feels like home, I thought.

  Yes, but why? I could already hear Eliza prompting, in the imaginary conversation in my mind.

  Because . . .

  I still didn’t exactly have an answer. Carter’s interview door opened, and he came walking out.

  “My turn to go in,” I said. “See you, Eliza.” I winked at Carter as he approached.

  “Have you been talking to her this entire time?”

  “Yeah, I asked for stories about you.”

  Carter took his phone and the interviewer came out of the room, motioning to me. “Nicholas Maguire?”

  Because . . .

  You can be anyone you want, right?

  Feeling the most confident I had all trip, I nodded, fixed my blazer, and went to shake his hand. I knew that Nick Maguire wasn’t perfect, though he wasn’t all bad, either.

  Hopefully the interviewer would see that.

  Eliza was wrong about one thing, however: neither of us could be anyone we wanted. She would always be Carter’s sister. And I’d always be his bro.

  RULE NUMBER 13

  A bro shalt treat his mother like a queen.

  After our interviews, Carter and I grabbed pizza at the place on campus. It was Sicilian pizza, square and extra crispy, whereas Straight Cheese ’n’ Pizza was thin crust, so we couldn’t decide which was better. Apples and oranges, basically.

  The car ride back consisted of Carter sleeping and me testing my luck with the state police: how fast could I go without getting caught? Turns out 95 mph, since that’s the fastest I went (although I didn’t pass any speed traps).

  We did the six-and-a-half-hour drive back in under five.

  Even though it was after dinner, none of the lights were on in the O’Connor’s house.

  “You sure you don’t want dinner?” asked Carter.

  “We have frozen food at my house too, bro.”

  “Gotcha. Later.” The passenger door blew shut as he slung his duffel bag over his shoulder. The half-eaten bags of chips stayed with me, however.

  The second I rolled out of his driveway, my phone started buzzing. I secured it in my phone holder.

  “Nick?” came my mom’s voice. “Are you back yet?”

  “Almost home.”

  “I just finished at the office. My car’s in the shop and your dad’s still at the school board meeting. Could you give me a ride back home?”

  Geez, Mom. Late night. Though a twinge of guilt hit me like an itch. The extra hours were for me. My parents wouldn’t let me get a job and contribute to my college fund—because apparently, I needed all my spare time to practice. Given how prepared I was for the tryout, it seemed to have paid off.

  “Be there in fifteen.” My Mustang kicked into gear. Her car was perpetually at the shop, but my mom was determined to run that thing to the ground. For three reasons:

  1. With my college coming up, new cars weren’t exactly on the top of our expense lists.

  2. She was too far above asking our neighbors and family friends for rides.

  3. She has the lowest Uber rating the world has ever seen.

  Everyone thinks their crazy, vomit-prone, foul-mouthed friend is the person with the lowest Uber rating: nope, it’s Alison Maguire.

  My mom approached the pickup curb as I drove up. She worked in an eight-floor building, where most of the walls were windows. All of them were dark. Her black suit blended in with the shadows, and her dark hair shone under the streetlights. Her weary face gave away her put-together façade.

  My mom was amazing at her job for the same reason she’s a terrible Uber passenger: she provokes people to prove their value to her. Oh, you’re amazing at typing and spreadsheets? A computer program can do that. Oh, you have good communication skills? Let’s see how many languages you can give me directions in. Think you can perform well under pressure? What about with me hollering at you to go faster, pushing you to run the yellow lights, saying there’s a cat in the middle of the street making you brake hard and get rear-ended? (Real talk: my mom is rated as one of the most unpleasant passengers Uber has ever driven because she ruins self-esteem, picks tiny arguments, and has left both drivers and passengers in tears, saying she was just trying to help them with their life skills.)

  She climbed into the passenger seat, tripping over her seatbelt. “Frick.” She caught her balance. “How was Clarkebridge?”

  I waited for her to be situated before crawling out to the main road. Driving my mom was tougher than my driver’s test—and impossible to retake.

  “Great,” I said. “Tryout went awesome, interview went well. Feeling good.”

  “Good or pretty good?”

  “Come on, Mom.” While I always tried to hold a nonchalant attitude around her . . . well, she started it.

  “Good will get you a scholarship. Pretty good means we might need some more options.”

  “Why?” Even though it was late at night, in our tiny town, and I was the lone car on the road, I flipped my turn signal on long before I needed to, to appease her. “I’ve got a great shot at getting in early decision. What’s the big deal?”

  “I’m trying my best,” she said. “We got an estimate from the federal loan offices last week . . .”

  My breath stayed sunken in my lungs. Here it comes, the amazing last week or so, crashing down.

  “. . . and we might need more than we thought.”

  I exhaled. What could I even say to that? “Is there anything else you can do at work?” I asked.

  “I interviewed for a promotion today, actually. I think it went well. Watch where you’re going, Nick.”

  Well or pretty well?

  Cars honked as I turned a little too close into traffic. The more we talked about Clarkebridge, the harder it was for me to concentrate.

  “They have a physical therapy program that I can apply to,” I said, trying not to tailgate the car in front of us. “That gives some financial aid, in addition to whatever I might get for soccer.”

  “The six-year program? You really think you’d be accepted to that?”

  “Gosh, thanks.” Ahead of us, another car appeared and stopped at a red light. I slammed on the brakes, barely seeing it in time. The dark made it hard to see to begin with, and now
I had extra to worry about.

  “You know, Mom, maybe if—”

  “Pay attention.” We were moving again. She dug her nails into her seat so hard that her knuckles began to turn white, visible even in the night.

  “If you guys hadn’t put so much pressure on me for getting a soccer scholarship, maybe my grades would have been better.”

  “Stop sign coming up.” She raised her voice.

  “And maybe if Dad didn’t wake me up at the crack of dawn every day—”

  “Stop sign!” she screamed.

  Too late, I shot through it, right at a car turning at an intersection. My brakes screeched as I pounded them, turning at the last second into the curb. The back wheels lifted off the ground and threatened to tip the car on its side. My eyes squeezed shut, bracing for impact. Our car slammed into the curb, followed by a loud crunch and the clang of a hubcap falling onto the road. My head bobbled into the steering wheel. Thankfully, we hadn’t been going that fast. Just going when it wasn’t my turn.

  None of the airbags deflated either, which was bad because they should have, but good because it turns out we didn’t need them, and they would’ve cost about three grand to replace.

  We sat in shock. We’d hit the curb just past the intersection with no houses or buildings within the next twenty meters. Lucky.

  “Are you okay?” I asked.

  She nodded.

  After a second to catch my breath, I swung the door open to examine the damage. It would be hard to know for sure until the morning, but for now a softball-sized dent stuck out on the side of my front bumper. If I could live with the aesthetics, it might not need to be replaced. My hubcap clanged as I threw it in my trunk.

  My mom stayed silent when I hopped back into the car. Tense and guilty, I fully prepared myself for a lecture. I didn’t get one. She didn’t need to say it.

  I told you so.

  Slowly, my foot pressed the gas and we rattled along at a normal speed towards our house. My eyes glued themselves to the road ahead.

  “It’s your own future.” At last, she spoke. “The fact that you even have a college fund should feel like a gift from God.”